


A Cottage in the Woods

by FaeryQueen07



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“There’s a cottage,” Stiles’ mother says, and then she presses a kiss to his forehead before turning off the light.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cottage in the Woods

“There’s a cottage,” Stiles’ mother says, and then she presses a kiss to his forehead before turning off the light. 

It doesn’t matter that he’s past the age for bedtime stories, that most kids his age would push their mom away, reminding her that they’re too old for that, they’re not _babies_. Stiles is different and he’s okay with that. Already his mind is fast at work, and he falls asleep to thoughts of over-flowing gardens, birds bathing in a fountain and a sense of home he doesn’t completely understand.

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a cottage in the woods.” She whispers the words into the dark of the room, one sentence that has Stiles aching to beg her for more. They’ve done this before, and he knows that at the end, she will have turned her story into a book, and it will go on his shelf with all the others. But there’s a sense of urgency to this story. A nagging sensation that if they don’t hurry, he’ll never hear the end.

(He doesn’t, but by the time he’s able to take the book down, able to open it up and trace the hand-written words with his fingers without having his chest go tight and lungs stutter-stop when he tries to draw a breath, he can finish it himself.)

He falls asleep imagining trees as tall as mountains, sunlight filtering through leaves and a fence tangled in ivy, reaching out to welcome visitors.

  


**. . .**  


“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing.”

Stiles waits until his mother’s footsteps fade, and then he’s slipping out of bed. He crawls into his closet, pulls out the radio-flashlight his dad gave him for his eleventh birthday. He clicks it on, turns the volume down low, and hangs it from the unused bar above him. Then he digs through the magazine clippings and photo printouts he’s been collecting until he finds what he’s looking for.

He falls asleep in the closet, glossy cutout clutched tight against his chest. Tomorrow he will take it to school, ask the librarian if she can make it bigger and scan a copy to his email. He’ll print out copies when he gets home and start to build his cottage.

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. Around it is a fence.”

Her words are soft, but she isn’t whispering. Stiles can see the tears in his dad’s eyes, even from across the room, but he doesn’t know what’s wrong. He opens his mouth to ask, but his mom just kisses his forehead, tucks him in with hands shaking just enough for him to notice.

He falls asleep to the sound of his dad crying, his ‘ _please, darling_ ,’ and ‘ _but think of Stiles_ ‘ muffled by the wall that separates their rooms. The cottage is a distant thing, dulled by the sadness lingering in the air.

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. Around it is a fence, whitewashed and sun faded.”

Stiles expects the story to end there, but then she clears her throat, and says,

“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. Around it is a fence, whitewashed and sun faded. At the gate is an arch dripping with jasmine.”

She holds out her hand, and in the center is a small white blossom. Stiles takes it with trembling fingers, holds the bud to his nose and breathes in the scent. When he looks at his mother, she leaning into his father’s side, eyes closed and face pale. He thinks about her words, about how many there were tonight, and then he thinks about before.

“Are you sick again?” he asks, afraid to reach out, to touch.

His father sobs, once, but his mother just smiles, presses soft lips to his forehead and tells him it’s time for bed.

He falls asleep to the memory of white walls, machines beep-beep-beeping and the nurses with their sad faces. The pictures of the cottage lies hidden in the shadows beneath his bed, a dying hope he’ll pack away in the morning.

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. Around it is a fence, whitewashed and sun faded. At the gate is an arch dripping with jasmine. There’s a fountain on the right, almost lost in grass as tall as your hip, and to the left, flowers of every kind, growing in pots, hanging from baskets and in the ground. There’s—”

“Don’t,” Stiles pleads. He doesn’t want her to do this anymore, doesn’t want her to waste her precious breath on make-believe.

His mother takes his hand in her own, her thumbs strong despite the disease eating her away from the inside out. He knows now that very soon his mother will go to the hospital and that this time—this time she won’t be coming back. No one has said as much, but Stiles is smart. He knows how to look things up on the internet and he knows that it’s only been two years since the last time she was sick. Seven before that.

He falls asleep to the sound of his mother’s voice saying those same lines over and over. _“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. Around it is a fence...”_

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. Around it is a fence, whitewashed and sun faded. At the gate is an arch dripping with jasmine. There’s a fountain on the right, almost lost in grass as tall as your hip, and to the left, flowers of every kind, growing in pots, hanging from baskets and in the ground. There’s a bench beneath an old oak tree, but you never sit on it. You lay in the grass instead, the sky an open canvas above you. Sometimes you’re not alone. Sometimes he lies on the grass with you, lets you whisper the secrets of the earth in his ear.”

“Who?” Stiles says, demands. His dad is down the hall getting coffee, but there is a nurse in the room. She’s new; dark curly hair, eyes that shine with sympathy as she checks his mother’s IV. The card clipped to her shirt says ‘Melissa McCall,’ and Stiles says her name in his head, memorizes. 

“You’ll see.” His mother says it like a promise.

Visiting hours are technically over, but none of the night staff have the heart to chase father and son out. A cot is brought in, and after much heckling from Stiles, his dad stretches out on, drifts off with his wife’s hand clasped tight in his own. Stiles could move to the chair, but he doesn’t. He lies down on the too-small bed with his mother and listens to the faint beat of her heart.

He falls asleep to the scent of roses clogging his nose. The room is full of them, and his last conscious thought is that he will never have those in his garden. Never.

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. Around it is a fence, whitewashed and sun faded. At the gate is an arch dripping with jasmine. There’s a fountain on the right, almost lost in grass as tall as your hip, and to the left, flowers of every kind, growing in pots, hanging from baskets and in the ground. There’s a bench beneath an old oak tree, but you never sit on it. You lay in the grass instead, the sky an open canvas above you.

“Sometimes you’re not alone. Sometimes he lies on the grass with you, lets you whisper the secrets of the earth in his ear. He laughs at your stories, not loud like your dad does, but quiet, because he’s not used to it even now. And when you’re not alone, when the rest—the rest of your friends are with you, he will laugh with eyes instead.”

Stiles nods and looks at the boy sitting beside him. He has hair like his mother’s, though shorter, eyes dark and worried as he listens to the story. Clutched in one fist is his inhaler. Stiles had taken an instant liking to him when one of the other nurses had introduced them earlier that afternoon. 

He falls asleep much later, after Melissa McCall’s son—Scott, Stiles thinks his name was—leaves. He dreams of cottages and flowers, of Scott standing beside him, asking in an awed voice,

_‘But how did she_ know _?’_

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a—a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a cl—clearing. Around it is a fence, whitewashed…and sun faded. At the gate is an arch dripping…dripping with jasmine. There’s a fountain on the right, almost lost in grass as tall as your hip, and to the left, flowers of every kind, growing in pots, hanging from baskets and in the ground. There’s a bench beneath an old oak tree, but you never sit on it. You lay in the grass instead, the sky an open canvas above you.

“Some—sometimes you’re not alone. Sometimes he lies...on the grass with you, lets you whisper the secrets—the secrets of the earth in his ear. He laughs—” Her voice hitches, twice, then she continues, “He laughs at your stories, not loud like your dad does, but quiet, because he’s not used to it even now. And when you’re not alone, when the rest—the rest of your friends are with you, he will laugh with eyes instead.

“Beneath the kitch—kitchen window is a—a rosemary bush, and beside it, basil and t—thyme. In the garden...in the back are tomatoes and carrots an—and green beans, perfect for—for little fingers to pull out of the ground. In the front, there are Forget-Me-nots and Daff—odils, Gerbera Daisies and Sunfl—flowers. Chrysanthemums,...Snapdragons and Amaryllis. Peonies, Delph—Delphinium and Tulips.”

Her words are broken up, lost in the raspy breaths she has to suck in just to speak. Stiles listens with tears burning his cheeks and his dad’s fingers holding curled tight over the sharp jut of Stiles’ shoulder. Scott slips out of the room, aware that there will be no more story today. He’s been spending almost every day for the past week with Stiles and his mother. As he passes, he squeezes Stiles’ hand. Then it’s just Stiles and his dad, who is wearing the same clothes from two days ago. It says a lot that he won’t leave the bedside even long enough to shower and change. 

His dad says, “Shh. Just sleep, honey. You can finish the story tomorrow.”

And even though Stiles wants to argue, he holds his tongue. He already knows he won’t get to hear the end of this story, knows that this is the probably the last time she’ll tell it, even if his dad continues to pretend. He presses the button on the little recorder lying between them, watches the red light fade out and thinks that maybe it’s a sign. He wrinkles his nose at the smell of the roses, already beginning to wilt around the edges.

(At her funeral, there are roses. Hundreds of roses, clogging up the air with their stench. They’re all over the house, and Stiles hates them. The minute the last guest—mourner—has left, he takes them outside and dumps them in the green bin.)

He falls asleep in the chair beside the bed, his dad lying with his mom. When he wakes, he already knows, and he doesn’t try to hide his face as the tears start anew.

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. Around it is a fence, whitewashed and sun faded.”

Stiles whispers the words into the crisp spring air and he shivers. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his dad do the same. He wonders if she knew somehow, foresaw this very scene eleven years ago, when she first began telling him her last story. It wasn’t unheard of, his mother having a sixth sense, a _knowing_ , but it’s never been quite like this. He feels the sting of tears on cheeks, and he scrubs at them, laughs breathless and sad as he thinks of her whispering this story to him at night.

Beside him, Derek and the others wait, silent, unobtrusive observers to this moment. Only Scott moves, breaking away from the pack to stand close to Stiles. He rests his head on Stiles’ shoulder, takes away some of the weight of pain and guilt. They stand in silence around the small cottage with its whitewashed fence, its archway at the gate and the promise of an overflowing garden once Stiles gets his fingers in the dirt and works his magic.

“She would have loved this,” he says at last.

“But…but how did she know?” Scott asks.

No one asks who they’re talking about; they know. They can feel his grief, raw even now, and they close in on Stiles, offering him their love, their support. Not even the sheriff escapes the pack’s group hug.

He falls asleep under the oak tree, face turned up to the sky. The sun is warm on his skin where it slips between the wide, green leaves.

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a cottage in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. Around it is a fence, whitewashed and sun faded. At the gate is an arch dripping with jasmine. There’s a fountain on the right, almost lost in grass as tall as the young man’s hip, and to the left, flowers of every kind, growing in pots, hanging from baskets and in the ground. There’s a bench beneath an old oak tree, but Stiles never sit on it. He lies in the grass instead, the sky an open canvas above him.

“Sometimes he’s not alone. Sometimes Derek lies on the grass with him, lets Stiles whisper the secrets of the earth in his ear. He laughs at Stiles’ stories, not loud like your grandpa does, but quiet, because he’s not used to it, even now. And when they’re not alone, when the rest of their friends are with them, Derek will laugh with his eyes instead.

“Beneath the kitchen window is a rosemary bush, and beside it, basil and thyme. In the garden in the back are tomatoes and carrots and green beans, perfect for little fingers to pull out of the ground.”

“Like mine, daddy!” The little girl sitting in the grass next to Stiles holds up her hands, proud and happy. 

“Just like yours,” Stiles agrees. He tickles her palm, then turns the page. “In the front, there are Forget-Me-nots and Daffodils, Gerbera Daisies and Sunflowers. Chrysanthemums, Snapdragons and Amaryllis. Peonies, Delphinium and Tulips. There is a flower for almost every letter of the alphabet, and tucked away in the corner, almost hidden in the shadows, is a rose bush. Of all the flowers, the roses have the softest touch, velvet against Stiles’ fingers, the pink edges fading into white near the center. Of all the flowers in the garden, these are the ones Stiles loves most...and also the least.”

“Why, daddy? They’re so pretty.”

His daughter’s bright blue gaze, intelligent and inquisitive goes from the rosebush a few feet away to Stiles. And maybe they aren’t connected by blood, but she’s his daughter through-and-through. She squirms a little as she waits for him to answer, her soft, pale curls bounce, drawing the attention of the puppy in her lap, and Stiles thinks she is the best thing to have fallen into their lives.

“Because they were your grandmother’s favorite flowers, and every time your daddy smells them, it makes him remember how sick she was, how much it hurt to lose her.”

“Oh.” She looks down at the puppy, her hand gentle as it strokes over his fluffy ears. “Does it make daddy sad when he says my name? Because it’s the same as grandma’s name?”

“No, sweetheart,” Stiles replies, and he means it.

From where he’s lying on the bench with their son, Derek turns, catches Stiles’ gaze. There’s nothing there but love, fierce and terrifying, and he smiles.

Stiles lies back in the grass, the sound of children’s laughter sweeping away the last of his sorrow. He can hear his father in the kitchen, opening the fridge to pull out lunch makings, can hear the sound of Scott’s car as it turns down the road leading to their cottage, past the place where Derek’s family home once stood. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the hum of life in the earth beneath him, can taste the storm that is still two days away.

He falls asleep in the garden, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the sun, his fingers brushing over Derek’s mark. He doesn’t regret his decision, and he thinks, just before he drifts off, that his mother would be happy for him, too.

  
**. . .**   


“There’s a faerie ring, deep in the woods, where no one dares venture save for a woman with a dream,” Stiles says. He presses a kiss to each child’s head—there are four of them now, and how on earth did _that_ happen he would like to know—, tucks the covers in around them and slips from the room. They’re catching on, learning not to break the spell woven by each new segment of story.

In the bedroom, Stiles reaches for the unbound pages, the pen he keeps beside it, and adds the newest part. Derek watches him, silent, wondering.

They fall asleep, and when he dreams, Stiles dreams of all the stories he has yet to tell his kids.

**Author's Note:**

> I currently have not found anyone to beta this. I have read over it twice, but I'm not infallible. In fact, I tend to auto-fill missing words in my head, so if you see any glaring errors, please feel free to PM me. If you put them in a comment, do so separately so I can delete it once I have made the change.
> 
> Thanks to [Rhea314](http://rhea314.livejournal.com) there is now [podfic](http://amplificathon.dreamwidth.org/2031329.html) available.


End file.
